Page 27 of Babalon

“That’s what I keep hearing.”

To the left of the cell is the toilet, the sink was built into the top and the residual sink water goes down into the tank for the toilet. The entire contraption is built out of metal, but at least it looks clean. Beside that, attached to the wall, are two shelves. One empty, which I assume is waiting for me to fill it, while the other holds random odds and ends.

Once I finish taking in my surroundings, I move over to drop my belongings on my bunk and start putting my space together. I figure it’s going to take a bit for me to get acclimated to anything here—schedules, locations, people, and really, just how things work in general. You know, okay, maybe you don’t.

It feels like the first day of high school all over again.

You get dropped into a class room with just your backpack and a shy smile. Unlike public school, this place feels like it will break my teeth if I even attempt to look somewhat happy; which is understandable. How anyone can be happy in prison, I don’t know.

“Lights out is at nine every night, lights on is at six am. Feeding times will vary, as will recreational time. You might just wait to see what is going to happen before you choose. I don’t like to be bothered much, at all really. So, keep it quiet in here.”

Well, that came out of nowhere, it was like the man could read my mind. Looking down, I peer at him. We were physically a little too close for strangers, but that was to be expected when I was randomly dropped into a room that is the size of a match box.

“Noted,” I reply while looking at what he has in his hand.

He sits leaning against the wall where a headboard would rest if we were in a normal situation, his ankles crossed with his prison issued socks showing, and a pair of Wal-Mart grade glasses sitting right at the tip of his nose. I would guess he is either in his fifties or sixties, especially with his graying hair, and the belly he is supporting.

But looking at the item he held in his hand, maybe I am wrong and he has just aged terribly.

“Batman?” I asked, raising a brow at the comic book he flips through.

“The one and only, you a fan?”

“No, I prefer Iron Man. More sass. Less brooding.”

“He is also a criminal.”

“And Batman isn’t? Besides, I hate to break it to you, so are we.”

The old coot glares up at me. Whelp, what a way to start our new friendship. Bickering over comic book superheroes. Maybe this is like high school after all.

What in the absolute fuck is prison?

I have been here for a few weeks, and it has been utter chaos; I thought prisons were uniform in nature? Society sure lied about that since there isn’t any set schedule like my cellie led me to believe. The lights came on, or went off, at regular times, but nothing else here is on any sort of regimen.

Annoying, but okay.

Not only is it chaotic in that manner, but these people in here are animals. I have half a mind to believe that the governor sent me here out of retribution and nothing else. It wasn’t quite enough that I was punished with a full ride scholarship toprison, no, let’s make it max where the worst of the worst hang out and slaughter each other for shits and giggles.

I never thought I would be the type to sit back and watch another man take one hell of a beating or one be cornered in the showers and gang raped either. I was in shock the first time it happened, but another inmate told me to just look away, which I did, but the sounds were just as bad as what I had initially seen.

The victimized inmate was screaming through the whole ordeal. I’ve never been butt fucked myself, but I have done my fair share of anal with women, and I know that it was nothing like what I had witnessed. I’m sure that it was some sort of retaliation or punishment, for whatever reason. I’d be a liar if I told anyone that I didn’t remember the squelching sounds of that inmate’s ass while the others grunted and degraded him the entire time.

On top of that, the guards did nothing.

I may be new here, but I have picked up a few things over the past couple of weeks, and I know the attackers were from a different cell block, and that they were not supposed to be in the showers at the time. I didn’t dare say anything, so I kept my head down and continued to wash my body—scrub clean, keep quiet, and get the hell out.

I was quick to learn that keeping my mouth closed was probably the best thing to do. I didn’t see anything, I don’t know anything, I can’t say anything. That was until the skinheads came around, watching me as I go on about my business each day. Society may like to believe that prison isn’t going to turn into another war zone, and that gangs cease to exist because there are guards observing their move every second of every day, but that is so far from the truth.

If you believe that, you’re a fucking idiot, and you’re living under a rock.

Violence will, forever, continue to exist in prison even more so once new inmates are partitioned off into their respective factions. White inmates were quickly picked off by the Aryan Brotherhood, the skinheads, the Nazis— whatever you want to call them. The Hispanic, Asian, and African descent inmates were no different. The segregation between groups is astronomical; racism is alive and well in prison.

The AB wasn’t fucking around with me when I showed up, appearing like your typical white boy; they flocked to me. Their leadership, some guy named Thomas, is elusive and I still have yet to see him. I heard all the white inmates speaking of this guy, but other than the rumors I don’t think he actually exists. He’s like some kind of boogie man.

What I do know, however, is that the Brotherhood doesn’t use beat downs as initiation tactics so that’s good—I guess. I’ve had a few run-ins with them since I got to Darkwater, and I’m sure they’re not going to stop. They will continue until I join their little bullshit group. I may be a lot of things in life, but a racist fuck isn’t one of them.

They can put me in the ground before I ever concede.

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